War By The Numbers
by Robin4
Summary: When something twinges the Eleventh Doctor's memory, he begins to realize everything he remembers about Amy & Rory is wrong. He finds he still has a part left to play in the war he thought he'd left behind. Here is the story of the Last Great Time War.
1. Prologue: Everything Wrong

_Disclaimer_: I own nothing, especially not any of the Doctors featured in this story. I just like to play with the toys, but I promise I'll put them back in the toybox when I'm through.

**Author's Note:**Although this story lists the 11th Doctor and the 9th Doctor as main characters, Doctors Eight and Ten are also heavily featured. So are several different companions from all four eras, not to mention the half-human Doctor. This is a multi-era saga of the Time War, in all its bloodiness and horror. You have been warned.

* * *

**War By The Numbers**

When something _twinges _the Eleventh Doctor's memory, he begins to realize that everything he remembers about Amy and Rory is wrong…and so are years worth of his memories.. Nothing adds up, and he finds he still has a part left to play in the war he thought he'd finally left behind. Here is the story of the Last Great Time War. Everything that was, everything that is, everything that must not be: a Time War in every sense of the words, death and destruction and loss in a non-linear form.

* * *

_**Prologue: Everything Wrong**_

**Eleventh Doctor**

"What is it?"

The Doctor took a long moment before answering, crouching in front of the small dark box, careful not to touch it even with his sonic screwdriver. It was shaped like a rounded-off "x" and thicker in the center, and so nondescript: gray in color, the "box" had absolutely no identifying markings at all. It was easy to miss amongst the rock and sand, and the malfunctioning perception filter still in place made the object even less obtrusive. According to local legend, it had been buried here on Daracia for centuries, having fallen from a burning sky in the times before living memory. Everyone had forgotten about the box until an earthquake had shaken the ground loose…and as always, the Doctor could not resist a mystery.

Especially when that mystery was currently disrupting the power supply to every building for miles around.

"I have no idea…" Another rotation of the sonic screwdriver proved useless; he was getting no readings whatsoever. According to his favorite tool, the box didn't _exist._ And even if it did, the sonic screwdriver insisted that it had no power source and was emitting zero energy. Not malfunctioning one bit.

But there was something _ticking_ at the edge of his consciousness that warned him that _he _was malfunctioning. Just a bit.

"I've never seen anything like it." She crouched to his left, impatiently holding a clump of ginger hair out of her face with her right hand.

"Of course you have—you're a Time Agent!" The words came out automatically. Something blurred in front of his vision, but rapid blinking cleared it.

"I'm a _what_?" Amy asked.

"Hold on a moment. What'd you just say my wife was?"

The Doctor scowled, shaking himself. "Forget it. Senile moment. I'm old enough to have them."

"Right…" Rory trailed off doubtfully, but the Doctor ignored him, too. Or tried to, anyway.

He checked a sigh; so _this _was why he'd never brought a married couple around in the TARDIS. They always ganged up on him.

"Stop glaring at me, Pond. I can feel my hair burning."

"You're a giant baby," she retorted with a snort. But she was still crouched next to him, staring at the box in fascination. "Speaking of burning…?" she prompted.

"Burning?"

"The bloody box, Doctor. The one that fell from a burning sky. Have _you _ever seen anything like it?"

How had his attention gone elsewhere? This situation was growing stranger by the moment. "Well, now that you mention it, I don't—" Memory tugged.

_Three Daleks meeting with a shadowed figure—one of them extended a pincher to accept a small object lined with fading golden lettering—_

His memory was perfect; the curse of being a Time Lord. But this had always been fragmented. Only this. The one thing he could not remember completely, the one way to make a Time Lord forget…

_A wall of row upon row of boxes, all glittering softly in the low light. Through a closed door, an orange sky was just barely visible—_

"No."

He stared at the box, barely hearing as Amy asked:

"No, _what_, Doctor?"

His lips moved on their own. His eyes stared. "No."

"Doctor?"

"It can't be!" He jumped to his feet as the sudden burst of adrenaline hit, then caught himself and dropped down to all fours in front of the box, peering at from every angle he could think of. His mind was whirling, spinning, running in overdrive, fast even for him.

"Can't be what?" Amy demanded. Rory was crouching by her side, now, as fascinated as he was.

He wished they were as _frightened _as he was, instead.

"Every single one of these boxes was destroyed. Gone. Erased. Never existed." The Doctor leaned over the box, studying each side in turn. Again. Was that lettering he could see?

Was he _shaking?_

"Destroyed when?" Rory asked. "Isn't time like that? Can't things happen out of order, and this just be from before they were destroyed?"

Any other time, he'd have been impressed by the lad's brilliance. Not now.

"Not this," he answered heavily. Tightly.

Painfully.

"How's that supposed to work, then?" Amy chimed in.

"They were destroyed in the Time War," he replied in the tone of voice that usually warned companions to Ask No More.

She only frowned. "The what?"

"Don't ask."

"Well, be like that, then—"

"Hold on, I think I've heard of something like that," Rory cut her off, and though the Doctor did not turn to face him, he could hear the _memory _in that soft voice—and something inside him twitched.

Only once had the Time War peeked its way into the present, only once had _they _assembled enough power to try to break through from the past—but not like this, not _now_. Never again.

He wondered if the Master was still out there somewhere.

_Not that now either!_

Forcing himself to focus, the Doctor sat back on his heels and reached out a hand to brush his left thumb against the box's edges.

"Doctor—"

She sounded close to panic. Of course, all of the locals who had touched said box had collapsed into comas, but Amy wasn't fast enough to stop him…and he knew this technology. He didn't want to, but he did.

Golden-black script flared to life under his finger's tip, and a forgotten song filled his mind.

_Orange skies burning red at morning._

_Soft touches from mind to mind, flowing so quietly and carefully, but always, always _there_. The full feeling of knowledge and wisdom and ageless time, arching out across each universe and binding together even those who ran away. _

_There was no running from oneself, after all. The _togetherness _always followed, the sharing of something larger than a mind, something greater than memory and longer than life. Always part of something greater, even if something crumbling and forgotten, greater and older and more magnificent than any single soul…_

_Sweeping mountains, memories, mel—_

Crack.

He was still distracted by the sudden influx of images when the ground dropped out from under them.

"Rory—"

_Crack!_

Despite his preoccupation, the Doctor almost got the word out quickly enough. "Loo—"

But he was already tumbling to the—_beneath the?_—ground and Amy and Rory both yelped in surprise. Rocks crashed down around them; something bounced off of the Doctor's left shoulder and made him hiss in pain. Dust thickened the air enough to make his respiratory bypass system kick in as his companions coughed and choked somewhere off to his right. They didn't sound above him, so they must have fallen, too—his sense of time was sluggish, but beginning to cope with the sudden (and slight, though unexpected) spatial shift. A long moment passed before the Doctor was able to suck a breath in.

His throat burned, and the air tasted unbelievably stale and sour, as if no one had been there for hundreds of years. _I'd forgotten how much using the respiratory bypass system _hurts. _It's been…_

He wasn't going to think about that now. He so wasn't.

"Doctor?" Amy coughed again.

"I'm here." He scrambled to his feet, waving a hand in front of his face as the air cleared. Moving to take a step towards his friends, the toe of his right shoe hit something with a _clink_, and the Doctor bent to pick the box up without thinking.

This time, he was better prepared for the sudden onslaught, but his mind still filled with awareness, knowledge, and…memory.

_The brilliant Untempered Schism, the window to time and the universe—every universe—beautiful, deadly, inspiring, maddening—_

_Footsteps on cool floors, Romana's frightened white face whispering "No—"_

_Time sweeping through the ages, faces, names, knowledge, peace, love, war, madness, eternity—_

_Everything and nothing, nothing and everything—_

Gasping, the Doctor forced the connection shut. He almost didn't, and certainly didn't want to, but now was not the time. Still, he had to swallow dryly; the sudden quiet in his mind _hurt_. A second deep breath buried the pain.

_You should be used to it by now, Doctor. It's been years since Gallifrey burned. _His own cynicism sounded forced, even in his own mind.

"Doctor?" He could see Rory's vague outline through the gloom, now. "Where are we? And what _is _that thing?"

_Brace yourself._ _Smile because you have something to hide, and then temporize. _It might as well have been the motto of his life. _Throw so much knowledge at them that they never miss the lack of answer. _"Well, judging from the fact that we fell downwards and the sky is above us, I would venture to say that we're underground. Logic follows that we didn't fall _up_, after all; this planet has gravity close to the intergalactic standard."

Amy scowled at him. "Load of help you are, Mister Obvious. And you didn't answer the second question."

His forced smile froze on his face as his left hand tightened on the box. Despite himself, the Doctor had to glance down.

"This…?" He swallowed again, braced himself. "This, Amy Pond, is a memory module." His left hand trembled, and he hoped she didn't notice. "From the Matrix. On…Gallifrey."

"The Matrix? Gallifrey?"

His eyes slid shut, and the Doctor found himself clutching the box to his chest. His voice was hoarse, felt old and raw. "The sum of all Time Lord knowledge and memories…housed underneath the Panopticon and protected above all else. To breach it without permission was treason, to tamper worthy of death."

He sucked in a deep breath before answering the second question in a whisper. "And Gallifrey was my home."

He'd thought this regeneration was past the Time War, past the pain and the loss and the horror of it all—he'd been _grateful _that his memories grew more muddled by the day. But confronted by the past, all he wanted to do was cry.

A long moment of silence passed before Amy asked quietly, "And this… module thing was a part of that?"

"A part?" He opened his eyes with an effort. "Oh, no. Not a part. It's Time Lord Science—it's bigger on the inside than the on the out—"

_Flash of memory. Screaming—_

Without warning, his right hand moved up to touch the module and the walls the Doctor had constructed between it and his mind collapsed. He couldn't help it; suddenly, the need to fill the silence was overwhelming.

_I'm supposed to be past this!_

He stood in a rapidly clearing passageway, with rows of metal doorways to his right and left—_cell doors!—_stretching on for hundreds of feet. The heavy doors were quadruple locked, deadlock sealed, and alarmed; power conduits stretched into and out of every cell—

Was this memory or reality? The Doctor blinked rapidly, but his usually logical mind couldn't wrap itself around the situation yet.

He could hear thousands of voices screaming in pain, stretching across the entirety of time and space—what ought not happen would now always be, and the uneven chorus stretched across the ages, collapsing his soul under the weight of such agonizing desperation and agony. His knees shook, buckled; every sense was _alive _and feeling, and his mind was no longer empty but filled by this beautiful horror.

One voice was screaming louder than the others, closer—

Hands were on his shoulders; Rory was shaking him. "Doctor!" He blinked once more, staring at his worried companions blankly. From somewhere he got the impression that they'd been trying to get his attention for some time. "Are you all right?"

"I—all right?" He shook himself. "Well, um, no. Not really. But that's to be expected."

_Flash_.

The same type scene with glass walls instead of heavy metal ones, glass that was not made of glass. Soft screams and the inevitability of loss—

_Crack._ His face stung.

"Oi! You. Pay attention," Amy demanded.

"You slapped me," he gaped, his attention now fully on the present. The last part had been memory, but the hallway of metal doors was _real._ They were standing in it.

"You bet I did," she gloated.

"You looked like you were about to pass out," Rory clarified apologetically.

"Oh. Well, thanks then."

Amy wasn't convinced by his smile, though, and Rory didn't look like he was either, but the Doctor's mind was elsewhere, clinging to the now-suddenly-quiet and dying song that had once so thoroughly broken both of his hearts. His mind had been silent for so many years (thirty-seven by the calendar of Gallifrey he still used, for some reason, to track time), and now the song he heard was the heavy end of the Time War, the screams and the deaths and the destruction of everything—

It was only an echo, but it made him want to scream.

And there was something _wrong _with it, too.

"Doctor?"

Her soft voice was so very far away, and her features blurred into a ginger-rimmed blob before he closed his eyes to keep back the tears. _Only an echo, _he told himself harshly. _Only. An. Echo._

* * *

_Spiral backwards in time. It hasn't always been _right_; things have been more wrong than you realize for quite some time. Something overlaps, somewhere, and your conscious mind ignores it because the timelines don't compute, even for your massive Time Lord Brain. _

_You know it's wrong, but you don't know when. Why._

_Two sets of memories are warring for control, and in your mind, that's Impossible. Not impossible of the breaking-the-walls-down-between-two-universes type, either; this is _Impossible_, two things that cannot coexist in the one timeline that _is_ only one timeline, in the last war of a doomed people._

_Rassilon wasn't there the first time, and you're not even positive that monster was Rassilon. Something isn't right, something going all the way back to the Medusa Casade when you were just a boy._

_River knows. Or she knows a part. Is it because you go to her after all of this clears because she's someone you can trust, someone who does not look at you with wonder or with the need for guidance. She's as close to an equal as you've had since—_

* * *

**Tenth Doctor**

_Bad Wolf Bay._

The mostly-human Doctor turned to the all-human Rose with tears in his eyes. "Well," he said softly. "This isn't exactly the future we hoped for, is it?"

She remembers, now, and so does he. Her voice is choked with tears, both for the man he was, the two men he now still is, and the ways she learned to love them both. "Not really, no."

They're both thinking of orange grass and red skies, of warm embraces and chances taken and not. Of lessons learned and wars fought.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers helplessly. "I killed you."

* * *

A/N 2: Thanks for reading, and please do review! I've got the first 8 chapters written, so the more motivation I have, the faster I'll write.


	2. Chapter 1: Not Linear

_Chapter One: Not Linear

* * *

_

**Ninth Doctor**

He is a Time Lord, and Time is not linear.

As first thoughts after regeneration go, that one is actually fairly logical; usually, he's careful not to share those strange pearls of wisdom with his companions, though the current one was rather sane in comparison with what usually popped into his head during those first moments. Usually, it's something along the lines of _Don't you think the TARDIS would look better in mauve (the outside, of course), and why don't you feed your left leg to the alligator? I'm sure he's hungry._ Nevermind that there aren't usually alligators; for a genius, he's not very sane sometimes.

Post regeneration haze, definitely. Something ought to be done about that, but seeing as how he insists on regenerating away from Gallifrey, the process isn't exactly controllable. Pity. He'd liked that last incarnation, all softness and dignity and silliness and _nice._ He'd even been rather fond of the wavy brown hair, figured that the sum of the parts meant he'd finally been growing up a bit, and the sheer _niceness _of that him had helped him mend a bit of the rift between himself and the other Time Lords…

Where _was _he, anyway?

With an effort, he forced his eyes open. Ever so slowly, smooth lines and soft edges slid into focus, simple and a bit natural-looking, but very familiar. The old thrumming feeling echoed up through the grating against his back—as he recognized that, suddenly everything began to _hurt hurt hurt_ and he rolled onto his right side, gasping for air through the sudden agony. It felt like he was bruised all over, bleeding from somewhere.

Perhaps he wasn't post regeneration. Perhaps this was something else entirely—but _what?_ His mind was still abnormally fuzzy and slow, but it took up the challenge willingly enough, and he focused on his surroundings.

The TARDIS. He was definitely inside the TARDIS, even if the desktop theme had changed. There was the center console, a bit lighter in color and built differently than he remembered, but still his. Always his. Except she'd changed.

"What'd you do that for, old girl?" he asked unevenly, getting up.

Either the fact that his voice had changed or the unsteadiness of his legs sent him crashing back to the deck, and the Doctor cried out in pain.

He _had _regenerated. Why had he done that?

_When _had he done that? He felt like he'd been in this body for awhile—or, at least it felt rather lived-in. Rather painfully lived-in, in fact. His entire body protested as he rolled back to his side (the left this time, as perhaps it didn't hurt so much as the right).

Dizzily, he looked down and focused on his body. He wasn't wearing even a shirt—not a habit he'd ever been in (was that a quirk of the new body?)—and he was bruised all over. Were those _burns_? Rapid blinking did nothing to make the marks go away, and shaking his head only made the TARDIS spin. Another moment passed before he could force his washed-out vision to work; distantly, he realized that was from pain, not because he'd gotten crud vision this time around. His breathing was ragged, and he couldn't escape the wildly frightening feeling that something was tight around his throat, constricting his airflow and…

And what? He couldn't remember.

Those _were_ burns. Chaffed and bloody, some of them, others just bruised and painful to look at, let alone touch. They stretched up from his wrists towards his elbows, across his waist and chest/shoulders, and from his ankles upwards several inches towards his knees. A corner of his mind noted that he wasn't wearing shoes, either, though there was blood on his feet instead of socks. There were strange, uniform-shaped indentures along with the burns, shaped like…chain links?

A shaking hand reached up, almost on its own, to touch the right side of his neck, and he flinched away from his own touch, coughing and choking by reflex. Yes, there were more burns there. Also—tentative fingers touched, even more cautiously—also on his face: cheeks, lips, surrounding his mouth and jaw. Instinct snatched the hand away before the dizziness could knock him flat on his face.

He was gasping for air and not getting in enough; his respiratory bypass system kicked in quickly (too quickly!) and painfully. Usually, it took a moment for the bypass to start working; none of his bodies were accustomed to using it, and genetic memory always took a moment to catch up.

Except for, apparently, this body. This one seemed to be quite used to using that system.

Scowling hurt, but he didn't bother trying to stop. The only other option was to laugh like a madman, and he was willing to bet that would hurt more, so the maniacal response was out the window, too. The bypass system kicked off, and he was breathing normally, if raggedly, again. That was nice. _Suppose I'll just have to figure out what's going on. Good thing I'm the clever sort, then._ Of course, he was rather bright, even by Time Lord standards, which was saying quite a lot—

And rather distractible, it appeared. Was that a function of the new body or a side effect of the pain? Ever so slowly, he sat up again, feeling muscles _work _and bruises tighten. But his body responded to his commands, at least, which meant nothing serious was broken. He _had _managed to stand, after all, even if he had fallen right down.

"Right then," he muttered, feeling pain as his jaw moved—but tolerable pain (mostly, anyway). His throat was dry and scratchy, and he _didn't _want to contemplate the feeling that he'd screamed his life out more than once with it—not right at the moment, anyway. Plenty of time for that, later.

He glanced at the TARDIS, deciding that he liked the new theme: simple and natural looking, with just a touch of eccentricity. Rather like him, in fact. And then he forced himself to his feet.

Several moments were spent wobbling before he could spare the attention to speak to his old friend. "Much as I like you, I'm going to bed. Try not to let anyone in while I'm out, will you?"

The lights flickered, and he suddenly got the impression that she was _worried _about him. Terribly worried, and utterly lonely—as if she'd been missing him and was now confused that he was back.

"I'll be fine, y'know." He managed a pained smile for her. "Jus' fine. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

Something like happiness flowed through their bond, and the Doctor cringed a bit. His head was _killing _him. Definitely time for bed.

Later, he vaguely remembered making it to the room he rarely used, the bed he only slept in every few days. The sheets were soft and cold, but they made his body burn, and he gratefully surrendered himself into cold dark of sleep to avoid the pain. There'd be time to remember later, he knew. There always was.

Only the exhaustion and the pain kept him from remembering that he was a Time Lord. Time was not linear and he had a perfect memory; Time Lords did not have the luxury of _forgetting_. But everything hurt, and even his brilliant mind could no longer keep up.

* * *

When he woke up, he remembered what he'd been doing. Pre-regeneration, anyway; the regeneration itself was still mostly a blur, but he wasn't terribly concerned. This wasn't the first time he'd experienced a touch of post-regeneration amnesia, and it would pass in time. After all, it wasn't like he'd woken up in a _morgue _of all places, wearing an infernal toe tag! At least he'd been in the TARDIS this time, and that certainly beat coming to in a new body and not having any idea who he was or what had just happened.

Poor Grace. She'd definitely deserved better than that surprise.

His eyes opened with an effort, focusing on the ceiling of his room. Still the same, as it always was. Interesting that this was one of the few places that the TARDIS never felt the need to change. That probably said something about their relationship, but there wasn't time to contemplate that. He had a job to do.

Nice and peacemaker him—_last _him, he'd have to look in a mirror to figure out what this body looked like, aside from the bruises—had managed to conciliate the High Council just a bit. Probably helped that Romana was president, too; she'd always been a bit more radical than she wanted anyone else to realize. Either way, he'd been working _with _the High Council to investigate a series of wounds and anomalies in time that no one could explain, and he'd been doing that when he'd…when he'd what? He had no idea.

_That _was definitely an unsettling feeling, and he spent several moments racking his memory for answers. But there were none, just flashes of darkness and _pain_…

"Enough of that."

Bad sign, talking to oneself. But he took his own advice, anyway, and clambered out of bed, heading barefoot for the wardrobe and noticing how very much everything still hurt. He was stiff beyond belief (he didn't know that a Time Lord could get that stiff, either, and that was saying something, considering his habits) and had a tendency to favor his left side—_Ah. _Cautious fingers probed at what had been cracked ribs before he'd gone into a healing coma, and everything started to make sense.

Except for how he'd broken those ribs, where he'd gotten himself so burned and bruised up, or how he'd wound up regenerating _before _said injuries happened. Unsuccessfully, he fought the urge to laugh, and wound up coughing sharply. Everything else made sense, anyway.

"Right mess, aren't I?" he asked the TARDIS, but he only felt concern in her response. Usually, she'd poke at him right now, have a bit of amusement at his expense because _look! _the Doctor has gotten himself in trouble again. Not now, though. Now she seemed worried.

His stomach rumbled, making the Doctor look down at it in annoyance just as he reached the door. He paused, blinking in surprise. This body was _thin_, oddly so. He wasn't built to be scrawny, judging from the width of his shoulders, and ribs-showing-through-skin was bad. Had to be bad. Another insistent grumble almost made him head for the kitchen instead of the wardrobe, but he looked awfully strange wandering about in nothing aside from a torn set of trousers that didn't quite fit properly. And that settled it. These were _his _trousers, and he'd clearly regenerated wearing them. Time to discover his new sense of fashion, then.

One more pitiful growl came from his stomach before his body gave up—how long had it been since he'd eaten? A soft touch of concern came from the TARDIS at that thought, and he managed a smile for her as he stepped from his bedroom. "I'm not dying, y'know," he said in the strange new voice that was now his. Northern, it sounded. Odd. "Not anytime soon, at any rate. I've still got to break this new body in."

A fresher, bigger, wave of love, comfort, and worry wrapped around him almost like an embrace. Feeling it made the Doctor stop, pressing a hand into the closest wall. "What is it, old girl?"

_You were gone. Across time and space. _

"What?"

_It was days and days for you. Moments for me._

"No."

He was a Time Lord. He never lost track of _time_—and yet he'd not even thought about how long he'd been separated from his beloved machine.

_I thought you weren't coming back. I thought you _died.

Swallowing painfully, he shifted to lay his head (careful of the bruises) against the wall. "I wouldn't do that to you," he promised. "Not now. Not ever."

Except he'd come close. He didn't remember how, but he knew that much. Guilt welled up; this TARDIS had been his closest friend, his only constant companion, since he'd run from Gallifrey, fed up with hidebound tradition, stuffy superiority, and arrogant refusal to get involved. He'd wanted to see, to touch, to _feel_—and the TARDIS had been by his side the entire time. She alone did not wither, grow old, or die…or leave. She was his, and he hers.

A long moment passed before he could pull away. "Clothing. Right."

Unsurprisingly, the first door he tried led to the TARDIS' massive wardrobe; her feelings were always most clear in how helpful the interior layout became. Her warm embrace stayed with him as he headed in, and though her touch usually wasn't so noticeable, at the moment it was quite welcome.

His legs were aching by the time he made it down the staircase; the muscles in his calves felt ill-used and unsteady, as if he'd never walked on them before. It was worse than the usual discovery of a new body; this one felt completely unused. Uncoordinated. As if he'd never had a chance to break it in. _Break it in. Possibly a very bad choice of words, that._ He grinned bloodlessly at himself, and then reached for the closest hanger.

Simple. He wanted simple. He wasn't sure if the desire was his new personality showing through or a result of his aching body and confusing lack of memories, but he wanted simple. There were enough multi-colored scarves and strange accessories in his past; now, he wanted dark and utilitarian, easy to move in and blend in a crowd with.

A few minutes later, he finally bothered to look at himself in the mirror, keeping his eyes on his chosen wardrobe and avoiding looking at his new features. Dark jumper, dark trousers. Comfortable and practical boots, good for running in if he had to. Black leather jacket (_why hadn't he thought of one of these before?_), extremely comfortable and just loose enough to give him room to move. No hat this time—his ears were too big for—

Ears. Sweet stars, he looked like an elephant. Staring at them prevented the Doctor from looking at the rest of his features for a long while; he'd had bad _hair _in his time, but never ears like this. He tugged on one, then scowled in annoyance.

"Attached. Damn."

Not that he'd ever had detachable ears, of course, but stranger things had happened during uncontrolled regenerations. A quick glance at his face told the rest of the story: one head, one nose (also too big, but it could have been worse), two (humongous!) ears, and two blue eyes. Not bad, overall. It was a serviceable enough face, framed with short hair. Not handsome, really, but good enough. Besides, he'd done handsome last time, and he'd had quite enough of having to fend various members of different species of varying sexes off with the proverbial stick.

"What d'you think?" he asked the TARDIS, receiving a warm pulse of approval in return. He grinned at the mirror, relieved to see that the expression still made him look more than a little crazy.

_Good. New body or not, that shouldn't change._ Nine for nine on craziness.

His face was still bruised a bit, and his neck quite more than a bit, but his jumper concealed the worst of it. Overall, it definitely could have been worse. Good enough to do what he needed to, at any rate.

Deep breath.

The Doctor let his feet carry him to the control room, this time noting the different desktop theme and appreciating it; the austere simplicity of the TARDIS' new interior matched well with his personality. He almost opened his mouth to ask if she'd known it would, but stopped himself. Having a few mysteries let in the universe was a good thing.

But—there was work to be done, and since he couldn't remember _doing _it, this was the time to be off. At least he was on the right planet, no matter how little he actually liked Daul IV. It was as good a place as any to start.


	3. Chapter 2: Out of Place

_Chapter Two: Out of Place

* * *

_

**Ninth Doctor**

_Some of his people sneered at him and said that he had a habit of picking up strays. The odds and ends of the universe, the dregs of all of time and space. He picked up the type that Time Lords turned their noses up at, the types that not a one of them would ever bother to _understand._ Worse yet, he wasn't predictable; one never knew who or what the Doctor would pick up next. On more than one occasion, he'd been convinced that there were several illegal betting pools carrying on as his more amused and/or stuck-up-ly superior fellows tried to guess who he'd come up with next._

_What they never really understood, not at all, was that he usually wasn't looking. That was his secret, of course. Left to its own devices, the universe tended to point him in the right direction, and he was, oddly enough, prepared to accept that. More often than not, his "companions" found him rather than the other way around._

_But he'd never before found the same person _twice _without meaning to. Without even remembering them._

_

* * *

_

_Spiral backwards further in time, and watch the pieces not line up._

_

* * *

_

"You know, this is hardly what I expected to be doing with my life," Rory groused around the ice cream cone.

"You've got chocolate sauce on your nose," Amy retorted. "Who puts chocolate sauce on an ice cream cone, anyway? It's melting everywhere."

Her partner rolled his eyes. "What do you care?"

"I don't."

She ribbed him because he was _hers, _and they both knew it. Regulations frowned upon marriage between agents, of course (strangely enough, the Powers That Be didn't much care if they _slept _together, but heave forbid they should make that relationship exclusive), so they pretended that wasn't the case. But his grin met hers, and Amy felt herself try to flush.

_Stop that, you. You're supposed to be the tough-as-nails Time Agent here, not a blushing schoolgirl out for ice cream with her boyfriend. Focus!_

Not for the first time, her gaze shifted off of Rory's face and to a humanoid-looking alien sitting at the bar. He was nondescript: brown hair, dark eyes, and just a little bit more plump than the human norm—his only real identifying factor seemed to be an absolutely amazing ability to eat never-ending amounts of ice cream. Having picked a dump of a planet like Daul IV to hide on hardly counted as an identifying factor, after all.

"How many sundaes has he eaten, anyway?" Rory murmured. "That's got to be murder on his heart."

"Eleven," Amy groaned. "Plus the four cones. This is taking forever. Not to mention that he isn't human, so you have no idea what his cardiovascular system is like. Perhaps this is his idea of a healthy meal."

"I _do _have two degrees in xenobiology, you know. And no one lives off of ice cream."

"One and a half degrees. You never finished the other one."

"It was hardly my fault that my professor took a liking to _you_ and was put out to find us sharing a bed."

"He wasn't my type."

"He better not be!"

They were oddities for the agency, unlike some of their counterparts. Not only was Amy _not _interested in random gentlemen with green and blue tentacles, she was rather determinedly exclusive. Rory was worth it.

But the banter was normal, of course. She and Rory could do it in their sleep, and sometimes seemed to—this wasn't the first stakeout they'd spent together (she'd lost count somewhere around twenty-seven, and that had been a few years back), and they usually poked at one another's history. Or childhood. Or anything, really. It made for good, distracting conversation, and besides—they'd known one another for absolutely ever.

"Oh, god. He just ordered another cone."

Rory groaned, but at least he lowered his voice. "Can't we just arrest him now?"

"Don't I wish. But we need his ship, whatever it is."

"Which we somehow managed to miss back in Egypt. Some time agents we are."

"Hey! I didn't count on red hair distracting that snake-priest fellow."

"You could dye it, you know," he suggested. "It'd certainly make _my _job easier every time we wind up in some primitive society that thinks it makes you a goddess, a devil, or both."

"No way. I _like _being ginger." But it had been a bit of a problem around the pyramids, where their skin color alone made them stand out and where no amount of disguises would help either Time Agent blend in. Unfortunately, this particular alien (she had to think of him that way, even though neither of their vortex manipulators' scanners could figure out exactly _what _species he was), had a habit of sticking his nose in places where it didn't belong.

Such as playing god in pre-Alexandrian Egypt and donating alien technology to build the pyramids.

Amy choked back another laugh at the thought; the assumption that alien technology had built the pyramids was one of the biggest urban legends in history. The Time Agency had investigated it no less than a hundred times, and they'd _never _found anything concrete—until Amy and Rory had stumbled upon _this _dumpy looking alien on a strange moon rigging poker games, then followed him to ancient Egypt and watched him set himself up as a god.

The fact that the situation was a textbook example of a self-fulfilling paradox only made the situation worse. She was going to have to write a point paper on this (because Rory Williams would never be caught dead writing a point paper when he could dissect some unknown species instead), and the report was going to be uncomfortably long. _Of course it was._ In the six years she'd been a Time Agent (four of them partnered with Rory, and the other two trying to convince her superiors to do just that), Amy had never managed to wind up writing a short report. Truth be told, she wasn't sure that the Time Agency accepted short reports; everything required seemed to be gargantuan.

"He's moving." The whisper slipped out of her mouth automatically, and the hunt was on.

The two Time Agents caught up with the portly alien just as he was reaching out to unlock an air car. Amy was half-disappointed by that; she'd really hoped for something more interesting than a very pedestrian-looking _air car_. Still, boring simplicity usually did make the job go easier.

"Stop right there," she ordered the alien, and was rewarded with a very confused glance. After all, it wasn't like her brown pants and blue shirt were much of a uniform; Time Agents simply didn't wear such silly things. "Time Agents. You're under arrest."

She held up her badge; to her left, Rory had already drawn and was already aiming his squareness gun right at the plump fellow. Weapons usually did a better job of communicating than humans, anyway.

Thick eyebrows clumped together. "I'm what?"

"Under arrest." Amy'd already put her identification away but hadn't drawn; one of them had to cuff the moron eventually, though her hand was resting on the butt of her gun.

"You can't arrest me," the alien replied stupidly.

"Looks like I just did," she retorted cheerfully, stepping forward. "Under Time Agency Charter six-two-nine, you have the right to silence only if you choose to employ it. For the record, please state your name."

Nervous laughter. "You don't even know my name and you're trying to arrest me. Fancy that! You can't arrest me, by the way."

"We certainly can. We've hard evidence of at least three charges of Time Tampering and one of Impersonating a Deity in an Underdeveloped Society." Amy stepped forward, cuffs in her right hand. "Turn around, you, and face the—"

The alien backed up several steps. "I think not. In fact, I'm leaving, as I most certainly do not fall under your jurisdiction."

"Everything that travels in time is our jurisdiction." She could hear the eye-roll in Rory's voice. Generally speaking, he was more patient than Amy, but this was getting to be a bit much. "Now, stand still or I might accidentally shoot you."

Not that Rory would. Rory had a hard time shooting _anyone _if he or Amy wasn't in direct danger, but he bluffed well.

"I'm a Time Lord."

"You're a what?" Amy demanded as Rory looked at the chubby figure disdainfully. _Now _that's _a new one. Never had a suspect try to get out of arrest using that excuse before._ But she had heard just about every other one, and she made 'Time Lord' a mental addition to the long, long list. Because it had to be an excuse, of course.

Although she and Rory had long since been briefed on Time Lords—all agents were—this mousy colored, short, and overweight alien bore absolutely zero resemblance to the ancient and wise guardians of Time. He was dressed in purple and brown, and hardly looked older than Rory, and that was even if one discounted the slovenly appearance, the enormous number of ice cream servings he'd eaten, and the idiotic demeanor. She'd never met a Time Lord, of course (and Amy didn't know of a single Time Agent who had), but there was no way that this embarrassingly sniveling creature was—

"Did you hear that?" the aforementioned embarrassingly sniveling creature asked.

"No. You really think we're going to fall for the oldest trick in the book?" Amy retorted. "Now. Your name. For the _arrest _record, if it's not too much trouble. Which it had better not be."

"The Monk," the alien replied automatically, his brown eyes searching every which way. "Quite seriously. I heard—"

"Oh, just turn around already!" Amy overrode him, aware that this situation had somehow escaped her control and needing to fix that. But before she could continue, a cheerful voice interrupted.

"Monk!"

Without warning, a tallish man shouldered his way past Rory, completely ignoring the weapon now pointed at his back. His short hair was dark and so was his clothing, but the gleaming smile on his face was somehow contrasted by a sharpness in his cold blue eyes.

"Monkedy Monk Monk Meddling Monk. My old friend." The smile grew still larger, but every instinct Amy had was screaming danger. "I've been looking for you all over. Where have you been?"

Amy, Rory, and the Monk all spoke at once.

"Wait a minute, you—" she started as Rory ordered:

"Step to the side and put your hands where I can see them."

"I've never seen you before in my life," the Monk objected.

"Monk, I'm disappointed in you. My face might have changed a bit, but I'm sure you can figure it out. This daft old—new—face isn't _that _different." The smile turned poisonous.

"Doctor?" the portly alien gaped, but Amy interjected.

"Oi! You. Baldy. You're interfering in an arrest, and if you don't step aside right now, we'll be taking you in, too."

Those blue eyes zeroed in on her, and Amy wasn't quite sure if he was laughing at her or had marked her as a single-celled amoeba without the right to form coherent speech. Possibly both. "Don't be ridiculous."

Then he swung back to face the Monk.

"They're arresting you? Fantastic! But I'm afraid you have other obligations to keep, so hand over the TARDIS key, if you please. You've got a date with the High Council, old friend."

"I can hardly see you working for the High Council, Doctor—did you hear that?" the other said hurriedly, his eyes wide.

"No."

Amy'd had it; in one smooth motion, she stuffed the cuffs into the back of her belt and drew her weapon. "Both of you. Hands up. Now. You, _Monk_-or-whatever-you-are, are under arrest for the previously motioned charges, and Baldy, you're under arrest for obstructing an arrest."

The newcomer stared at her like she'd just drooled on her shirt.

"You're trying to arrest me." It wasn't a question.

"Glad you finally noticed," Amy shot back.

He swung to look at the Monk. "You did tell her, yeah?"

"Of course I did! She laughed at me."

"Well, you are rather laughable for a Time Lord. Even more laughable than me, and that's certainly sayin' something," Baldy retorted, and then looked Amy straight in the eye. "Unfortunately, he's not lying to you. He is a Time Lord, an' so am I. According to your Agency's original charter—line twenty-three, I believe—that makes us untouchable. So we'll be—oh, I did hear that. Monk, for once in your life, you're not making things up, are you?"

Amy scowled at him. The Time Agency Charter was public knowledge; even if he did have the right line number, that didn't mean a thing. Not that she had the thing memorized; she'd have to check later. But the Monk was chattering again.

"I tried to tell you before, Doctor—"

"Before? What before?" the Doctor's (?) voice grew sharp. What _was _with these names?

A new voice interrupted.

"No one move."

_

* * *

_

There were certain sleeping agents that worked on humans, and others that worked on Time Lords. The number that affected both was rather smaller; due to different physiology, not everything that worked well on one konked the other out. However, as the Doctor woke with a very fuzzy feeling at the back of his throat, he was pretty sure that he'd been hit with one of the better ones.

Better as a matter of speaking only, of course.

He was in a cell. No, scratch that—more of a room. There was a window, and it even lacked bars, though his hands were cuffed behind his back with something that was _definitely _not approved for use by the Time Agency. Ankles, too. The memories were rather vague—seemed to be a pattern with him, these days—but he vaguely remembered three or four large humans in black and a lot of sleeping gas. _Bounty Hunters, _his brain dutifully reported, and he couldn't argue with the assessment.

First Time Agents, and then Bounty Hunters. What _was _the Monk up to?

Whatever it was, this was definitely not where he'd planned on being when he left the TARDIS. (Once he remember what that was, anyway—regardless, he was quite certain that this _wasn't _it.) Time to change that.

The Doctor was still getting used to the new personality, but he'd already discovered a few key things: this him was far less patient than the last. Forgiving, but not. Anger blew hot and cold, but when focus was required, he went cool and calm. _Useful thing to know, that._

But facedown with his hands cuffed behind his back was not the place to start—especially because it hurt. Still hurt. Whatever it was that had so thoroughly battered his body made his muscles stiff and sore, uncooperative to an extreme—and it conjured up all kinds of unpleasant half-memories of pain and more pain. _Not now. _Memories were for later; he couldn't afford the distraction at the moment.

A long few seconds passed before he could squirm into a sitting position; this wasn't the most flexible body he'd ever had, apparently. However, once he put on some weight, it would probably prove to be one of the more muscular ones. Not that knowing that helped at all in the current situation, of course.

Except—the thought caught. He needed to put on weight, still needed to eat—what _had _happened?

_A dark hallway, deadbolt lock sealed doors to the right and left—_

_Cables and wiring, gold energy lacing out—_

The Doctor shook his head, and the images receded. Now was not the time; the ginger haired female was staring at him.

"This part of your arrest?" he asked archly.

She scowled. "No."

Well, at least she wasn't crying from fear or something—that was a fairly good start. But the Monk looked ready to fall apart, which the Doctor decided was fairly typical. No matter how many times someone regenerated, there were certain character flaws that lingered.

"Um, Doctor…" the other Time Lord started in a shaky voice.

"Oh, shut it." His head was pounding, and he didn't need the Monk to add to the headache. "This is probably your fault, anyhow."

"My fault? I'll have you know—_ow!_"

The female Time Agent had kicked him (with both heels, seeing as how her ankles were shackled together, same as his). The Doctor gave her an appraising look.

"What'd you say your name was again?"

"Amy Pond.." Her hazel eyes met his levelly, even though her partner still seemed to be unconscious. She was a tough girl.

"Nice to meet you, Amy Pond. I'm the Doctor," he grinned for a moment, glancing around the room. "And I happen to have a sonic screwdriver in my jacket pocket , which, since I'm not the most flexible bloke you'll ever meet, I can't quite reach at the moment. Care to assist?"

"You could have spared me the introductions and mentioned that sooner. Which pocket?" Her calm wasn't perfect, then; Amy sounded quite relieved as she twisted her body into position. "Who carries around a sonic screwdriver, anyway?"

"I do. Front left pocket. And why not? It hardly resisters as a weapon, so it's not like those lovely bounty hunters are going to take it away now, are they?"

"So you think they're bounty hunters." She didn't seem surprised in the slightest as she squirmed her hands into his pocket.

"Since you two are Time Agents, that cuts the options right down, doesn't it? Ahh…mind the ribs, will you? A bit bruised." The last sentence hissed out from between clenched teeth.

"Sorry. So, why would bounty hunters want him? We want him for meddling with history, but he's not even very good at that."

"Good question. Setting one-zero-six," he instructed as she finally freed the sonic screwdriver. Then he turned to glare at his old acquaintance. "Monk?"

"I—I have no idea, Doctor." Huge brown eyes focused on him. Panicky.

"Sure you don't." _Click_. His cuffs popped open, and the Doctor relieved the Time Agent of his sonic screwdriver, first unlocking her wrists and then his own ankles. "Here. Unlock your partner. Leave the Monk."

"What? Doctor, you can't—"

"Sure I can. I'm a brand new man, Monk. You don't know me at all. For all you know, I'm a bloodthirsty maniac this time 'round." Even as he spoke, the Doctor made his way over to the small window and peered out. It seemed to lead into an alleyway, but if he craned his neck just right, the Doctor could see a busy city street at the alley's end.

"You can't leave me here!" the Monk's voice rose to a near screech; Amy got in before the Doctor could reply.

"Shut up, you! Do you want them to come barging in on us now?"

Finishing with her partner's restraints, she tossed the sonic screwdriver back to the Doctor, who smiled sweetly at the other Time Lord.

"Lady's got a point."

"Do I look like a lady?" Pond demanded.

"I dunno. Are you?" He turned back to the window as the Monk sputtered. But the Doctor continued before anyone could speak: "Fantastic! Not deadlock sealed."

"Doctor, they'll kill me," the Monk said breathlessly. "Please—"

"They? Who's _they_?" Four screws per side of the window, sixteen in all. Short work with a sonic screwdriver; he could have popped the lock easily enough, but without removing the frame he'd never fit out the window—to say nothing of the Monk's plump form.

"Um, well…"

The Doctor almost had the window out, but he twisted around to face the Monk. "Look, you. I have absolutely no reason to save you and at least a dozen—probably more I can't remember, too—to leave you here. So you'd best start talking. Fast."

"You have post-regeneration amnesia?"

The obvious relief in the Monk's voice twinged something in the back of the Doctor's mind, but there was no time. He turned back to the window as Amy spoke up.

"I hear voices. I think they're coming."

At least her partner was sitting up, now, even if he was holding his head like a drunken idiot.

"You've got ten seconds to convince me, Monk." The last screw popped free, and the Doctor lowered the window to the floor. "Get your partner out, you," he said to Amy.

Smart girl; she didn't argue. "Right. C'mon, Rory."

He turned back to the Monk as the Time Agents climbed out the window, making a show of pocketing the sonic screwdriver. "Five seconds."

"Daleks. It's the Daleks. They —"

Voices right outside the door, all non-mechanical. Unlike—

"_Experiment proceeding as designed."_

"_Energy levels—"_

Now was not the time for flashbacks!

Shaking himself, the Doctor yanked the sonic screwdriver out long enough to unlock the Monk's ankle cuffs before shoving it back into his jacket. Every instinct he had was screeching that time was running out—the Doctor grabbed the Monk by the upper arms and hauled him to his feet. "Why didn't you say so, Monk? Even I wouldn't leave you here to them. Hurry up!"

"My hands—"

"Later!"

Grunting, he shoved the shorter man up and bodily through the window, pushing _hard _to make sure that the plump stomach made it through on the first try. The Monk yelped as he struck the ground, but just as the Doctor turned to follow, the door flew open.

Three very burly-looking humans stood in the doorway. One might have been female but it was hard to tell with all the tattoos. "Oh. Hello."

"Stop right there!"

His mind was already whirling with calculations before he even started moving—their weapons weren't up yet—and he was in motion. Two long strides and a leap; energy beams impacted the wall split seconds after he jumped headfirst through the window.

Had the Monk not broken his fall, the Doctor might very well have knocked himself unconscious upon landing. As it was, his bruised body still screamed in protest as he jumped to his feet, not at all happy about the continued abuse. The Monk was still on the ground, moaning.

"My stomach…"

"No time for cryin', Monk!" He hauled the smaller Time Lord up again. "Run for your life!"

He really shouldn't be enjoying this so much.

The Time Agents took off a few steps ahead of the Doctor and the Monk, leading the way out of the alley. A few shots rang out, coming from the direction of the window, but none hit. Shouts also followed the escaping prisoners, except all three of the bounty hunters were too large to fit through the small window without a struggle, which gave the escapees a head start. Now, all they had to do was stay far enough ahead to—

"Right turn!" the Doctor bellowed as they reached the street.

"My TARDIS—" the Monk panted in protest.

"Mine's closer," he snapped back. "Left past the Ice Cream Shoppe!"

"Got it!" For such a slender woman, Amy was doing a fantastic job of clearing a path through the crowded streets. People rushed out of their path to the left and right, staring at the quartet as if they were crazy—and then they were suddenly screaming and diving aside as shots started ringing out. A few feet to the right, a human woman fell, unconscious and bleeding. But there was no time to help her, and they ran on, anger building up in the Doctor with every step. He was going to find out who was responsible for this mess, and—

"Doctor, they're shooting at us!" the Monk squealed.

"I can see that, thanks. Left turn!"

They pounded around the corner, narrowly avoiding a blue-gray humanoid kid on an air board. Both Time Agents slowed upon seeing the dead end ahead, but the Doctor dragged the Monk straight up to the familiar blue police box, his key already out and in hand.

"We can't stay here!" the male time agent (Rory?) shouted as the Doctor wrenched the door open, shoving the Monk through.

"Get in!"

"Hiding isn't—" But he was close enough to grab, so the Doctor did just that, pushing Rory inside.

"You, too, Ginger!" he shouted at Amy, just as the bounty hunters boiled around the corner.

"You're _insane_!" But she was smart enough to rush inside, and the Doctor dove in on her heels, slamming the door shut behind himself. He shoved the Time Agents aside and rushed for the controls.

Moments later, they were in the Vortex.

"You want to uncuff me, now?" the Monk asked plaintively.

"Nope. I think I like you better this way."

"Doctor—"

"Fine. If only to stop you whining. I already have a headache, thanks." And he matched actions to words, pulling out his sonic screwdriver and freeing the Monk's hands. Then he twisted the plump Time Lord around to point an admonishing finger in his face. "But don't touch anything. She already doesn't like you much."

The Monk scowled, but retreated several steps, rubbing his wrists.

"Where are we?" Rory asked.

"Technically, we're in the Time Vortex," the Doctor replied cheerfully, glad for the distraction as he moved back to the console. "Welcome to the TARDIS: Time And Relative Dimension In Space. Most advanced time ship in all the universes," he translated.

"Not funny," Amy retorted. "I know what a TARDIS is, and this isn't. Neither of you is a Time Lord, either."

Oh, Time Agents _were _well informed, if just a bit daft.

"I'm insulted," the Doctor replied, grinning. "While I can see that Fatty here is a bit hard to believe—" he jerked his head in the Monk's direction "—I did just save your life. Both of you, actually."

"That hardly makes you a Time Lord," she shot back. "Besides, if you hadn't gotten involved, we'd have arrested him with no trouble."

"Because you seemed to be doing a fantastic job of that when I arrived."

Amy glared at him, and then twisted to include the Monk in the expression. "You're still under arrest, by the way. Same charges apply."

The Monk gaped. "You can't—"

Rory spoke up. "Of course we can. Actually, both of you are under arrest."

"Oi!" the Doctor objected. "I just saved your lives."

"And now you're guilty of obstruction of justice." She smiled sweetly. "No free passes."

"Let me get this straight: you're arresting me in my own TARDIS."

"Looks like," Amy replied cheerfully. "Or whatever this thing is."

"And how exactly d'you think you're gonna manage that?" he wanted to know. Amy just glared at him, and the Doctor rolled his eyes. "Don't answer that. In fact, as fun as this has been, I've got a schedule to keep. What century are you two from, anyway?"

"Fifty-first," Rory answered as Amy frowned.

"Why do you care?"

"Well, I could either drop you off at Time Agency headquarters in a random century of my choosing, or I could be nice enough to drop you in the right year. Your call." He gave her the sweet smile right back.

"Fifty twenty-two," her partner answered for her.

"Time Agency HQ, London, fifty twenty-two it is," the Doctor grinned. "From there you ought to be able to get yourselves home well enough."

"And him?" Amy demanded; she really was starting to get on his nerves.

"Oh, the Monkedy Monk and I have an appointment to keep," he replied airily, working the controls.

"We do?" the Monk asked worriedly.

"Oh, yeah. The High Council wants a word with you, my friend."

"_You're _doing the High Council's bidding?"

The Monk's incredulous reply made him grin. "Takes a rouge to catch a rouge, it does. You know how it works."

"But—"

"Here we are. Fifty-first century London. Time Agency HQ—or just down the street, anyway." He was even polite enough to open the door for them. "Time Agents exit here."

Rory looked outside the doors warily before stepping out; immediately, the Monk tried to follow.

"Not you," the Doctor growled, catching him by the collar. "Your turn, Agent Pond."

"No way."

"What?"

"I said no." She crossed her arms. "I don't trust either of you. I'll come along for the ride and see where you take him."

"Amy…" Rory started from outside, his expression declaring _Not Again!_

"Listen to your partner, Amy Pond," the Doctor interjected in a warning tone. "You don't want any part in this. Wherever it's going."

"I'm going wherever you're going," she replied, crossing her arms and leading rebelliously against one of the pylons. Then she glanced at her partner. "Just go file the reports, Rory. I'll be back when I can."

"I hate filing reports," he replied morosely.

Judging from her smile, it must have been an ongoing argument. "Just do it, will ya?"

He must have known her too well to argue, even though he was still frowning. "If you're sure."

"Of course I am!"

"Oi!" the Doctor interrupted. "I'm not sure. Wait, I am sure. You're not invited."

"Don't care."

They glared at one another for a long moment, neither willing to given an inch. She was a tough one, this Amy—or tough on the outside, anyway. Behind the hazel eyes he could see a little girl peeking out, one fascinated by the universe and everything in it. She wasn't as jaded as most Time Agents came to be; there was something decidedly curious about her demeanor. In short, she was just his type…even if his companions didn't usually invite themselves over his objections. Finally, he sighed.

"Be it on your head, then," the Doctor grumbled.

What he really meant, of course, was _Welcome Aboard_, but this new him seemed to be the grouchy sort. Better than the last incarnation, though. The last him might have kissed her.

_

* * *

_

**Tenth Doctor**

He remembered, now. Remembered Rose and Gallifrey, living and losing, loving and…and _pain._ He'd managed to make it through dropping Donna off, through—_Don't think of that, now!_—and now he stood soaking wet in the control room, remembering too much and not enough and it felt like his mind was going to explode—

Perhaps it was. Perhaps he'd saved the part-human him, saved Rose, and now would not be able to save himself. No matter.

Somehow he'd collapsed sobbing to the floor. Somehow he'd broken through the wall of his own making, because seeing Rose, seeing Rose and _him_ broke everything lose.

But the memories came at a price.

Rose was luckier. Her tiny human mind wasn't built to withstand the pressure of storing those memories through the transition of one life to a (theoretically unconnected) other, so the hybrid mix of Vortex-Time-Guardian simply held onto them for her, lurking in the shadows and waiting. Waiting until something _dragged _the Guardian out of Rose, waiting for the impossible. Waiting until she and her Doctor were standing quietly together on the beach—

_He could feel them remember—_

Because this Rose Tyler, the one that had grown up on an earth relatively at peace, the one that had never seen a Dalek invasion or had not met the Doppelganger Jeremy when she was nineteen years old; _this _Rose Tyler was completely human. Even absorbing the Heart of the TARDIS didn't change that; the Doctor pulled it out of her, everything save an echo.

Perhaps that echo connected with the Rose-that-was and the essence of the Guardian she'd been. Perhaps it had not. Either way, both the power and the memories lay dormant until needed, and when they flashed into her mind, they came one by one, moment by moment, mindful of the fragile human mind each was entering. Rose wasn't built to absorb such power and knowledge all at once, so the Guardian she had been—and would never be again—rationed their release carefully.

The Doctor, however, was a Time Lord. His mind _was _constructed to handle the tangle of timeline-overlapping-timeline-erasing-timeline; not only was he trained to understand such confusion and change, he was also…bred to understand it. He was a _Time Lord_. He lived and breathed time and change, and instinctively understood the nuances of each. No species had ever had a more refined Time sense, and his had always been more developed than most.

But even a super-powered Time Lord mind couldn't keep up with this.

_

* * *

_

_**A/N:**__Thanks for reading, and please do let me know what you think! I know the last part seems a bit out of place…but it all does come together. I promise. _


End file.
